


penance at her feet

by Nimravidae



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angel Furniture?, Catholicism but make it sexy, Dom/sub, F/M, Face-Sitting, Femdom, Genderfluid Character, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Human Furniture, Humiliation, Licking up stuff that you spilled, Masturbation, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), Stepping in Heels, degradation kink, idk how to tag that one, mild choking, some softness im not a monster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-29 05:04:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20076616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nimravidae/pseuds/Nimravidae
Summary: Heaven was always rigid, strict beyond measure, as was Hell. If something was said to be done, it was to be done. Heaven sent Aziraphale more instructions than he’d like to think about, always sending him off to commit some act of good or inspire creativity or do something of the like.Made it hard, when that sense of order was removed, to really do much of anything.Good thing he has Crowley. She is remarkable at telling him what to do.(Nanny!Crowley steps on Aziraphale because we need it.)





	penance at her feet

**Author's Note:**

> This is for everyone who even sort of wanted it. This is also for everyone who didn't know they wanted it.

He always knows. He’s never sure how he knows, but he always knows. There is something in the air that is undeniably and unmistakably _Crowley. _Crowley doesn’t even need to be in London for Aziraphale to feel it. He’d felt it before, when they were hundreds of miles apart, _thousands_ of miles apart. 

A shiver across the atmosphere, a flex of power that echoes across time and space to curl around Aziraphale. 

A blink, and it’s gone, scattered off into nothingness. Aziraphale feels it as he’s preparing dinner (attempting to, at least. He could never get the hang of the whole _waiting _bit. He’s far too eager, far too ready the moment he can smell the tantalizing lure of caramelized onion and feta of the tart he’d put in the oven. It shouldn’t be done for another ten minutes but he wants it to be ready, so it is when he opens the oven. Aziraphale doesn’t even need to try it to know it’ll be laced with the particularly sharp aftertaste of Celestial energy.) 

He’s nearly finished the washing up when the door opens, Crowley’s heels clicking against the flooring as she steps inside. 

“Hello, angel,” she says, announcing herself in ways she doesn’t need to. The gate is never unlocked for anyone else—unless pre-determined. Any stranger finds it locked, just like their front door, and is immediately reminded of somewhere else they need to be right that moment. 

Aziraphale, of course, knows it’s a toe dipped in to check the temperature of frigid water, a bit of a warning before she comes in through to the kitchen. As if the heels weren’t any indication, or the sweet roll of her perfume (different from the cologne, if only in soft, subtle ways). 

A test. 

A way to warm up while she shucks off her overcoat and leaves her sunglasses in the ever-growing pile by the front door. 

He doesn’t even blink as he turns, setting the mug of tea he’d fixed in anticipation of her arrival on the table. He drops a kiss to her cheek and pulls her chair. Like a proper husband ought to his wife. Not that Aziraphale doesn’t do this for Crowley when Crowley is so inclined to be his husband. It’s become ritual and rite, something Aziraphale will always do for Crowley when she comes in from whatever it is she’s been up to that day. 

He always knows when she’s coming back because she’s always back around the same time. Tea time. He never asks where she was, knowing the answer could be anything. Gardening, out at the shop looking for new things to garden with, out for a drive, out working. 

Not that either of them have to report to their respective offices anymore. Those days are long behind them. 

Which has, in these past eighteen months, become sort of a problem. 

Heaven was always rigid, strict beyond measure, as was Hell. If something was said to be done, it was to be done. Heaven sent Aziraphale more instructions than he’d like to think about, always sending him off to commit some act of good or inspire creativity or do something of the like. It kept him busy between his books and between Crowley’s visits. 

He always had a goal, always had something he was told to do with the understanding that he would do it. Whenever he got around to it was really up to him, but he always had _something _to do. Or moreover, he always had _someone _telling him what to do. 

Made it hard, when that sense of order was removed, to really do much of anything. 

No one _told _him to wait for the tart to be finished and so it wasn’t finished, not _really, _and now Aziraphale is stuck eating a tart tinged with the too-sharp taste of a miracle on the back of his tongue. 

Good thing, he thinks, he has Crowley. 

She is remarkable at telling him what to do. 

She examines her mug before looking up at where he hovers, standing just a faint inch too close to her. She examines him for a few short moments, looking up under those long, dark lashes. They look false, like she should be able to peel them off. But he knows they’re real, they’re real because she wants them to be real.

Her lipstick leaves a print on the edge of the mug she sets down. “Is something the matter, angel?” She asks as she turns her piercing gaze down to her nails. Freshly repainted. Might have been where she was all day. 

Aziraphale appreciated a good manicure as much as the next gentleman, but she took greater pleasure in it. Something about being held, being pampered. 

She deserves it more than Aziraphale could ever imagine. 

“Well?” Her tone turned an edge towards sharpness. It swallows the softness from before and sends a cold bolt down Aziraphale’s spine. 

_Answer me, _it means. 

“Nothing,” he says, stepping back. “I got...over excited about my tart. Came out too fast.”

Ice-gold eyes turn towards him, the question lingering just behind them. “Were you being impatient?” 

_Bad? Where you being bad? _

Bad.

Aziraphale swallows. It’s been hard to focus, hard to clear the edges around his mind and focus on one thing. No one’s given him instructions, no one’s given him rules. No one’s given him lines to follow and orders to adhere to. The recipes he’d read didn’t have the authority to force his hand to stop him, the recipes didn’t watch over his shoulder and shout him down when he toed out of line. 

“Yes,” he says, chin tucking to his chest and hands clasping over his middle. “I was impatient.” 

She sips from her tea. “Were you being naughty?” 

He swallows, a thick, and heavy, gesture. It sits heavy in the pit of his throat. Crowley doesn’t offer unless she’s in the mood to, he knows that logically. There have been times when he’s pushed, teased at the edges around her but she just put him to bed and toyed with his hair all evening. 

The funny thing about Hell being the one giving constant instructions, is that it leaves someone to wanting to give them. One can only be on the receiving end of the whip of so long, he supposes. 

Aziraphale wets his lips. “Yes.” 

She hums, sniffs once, and sets her mug back down a second time. “Well, I suppose then you’ll need to be punished then won’t you.”

Ah. Yes. That word settles something inside him. His stomach flops a bit and he twists his pinky-ring around a bit harshly. “I suppose I will.” 

She gathers herself and stands, mug in hand. “I’ll be in the sitting room, darling. Make yourself...” Her eyes flick up and down. “Presentable, and we’ll see what we ought to do about you.”

Presentable. 

Presentable. 

In certain companies, it has very specific meanings. In this one, it means nude. She sashays off to the sitting room, leaving Aziraphale alone to do that part of the business. Having just been cooking, he was already well on his way there. All he has to carefully strip from his his trousers, his shirt and his apron. And his pants, of course, because that is what she wants. She wants him presentable. 

He strips with a sharp efficiency, folding his clothes on the table and making his way after her — not unlike lost puppies do with their masters. She’s sitting, when he walks in, staring off into the middle-distance as she toys with the brim of the half-full mug. Aziraphale waits, anticipation gnawing under his flesh, for her direction.

Her legs are crossed, delicately, at the ankle, hair coiffed to perfection. She had changed at some point while Aziraphale was stripping, away from the smart skirt and the no-nonsense blouse into a dress. From where she sits Aziraphale can’t quite make out the details. Something black, ending just above the knee by the cut of it. It clings to her chest, with a neckline that dives down between her breasts. He follows the line of it, lips itching to kiss in the same way his fingers itch to touch. 

“Hands and knees,” she says, and he falls to them, supplicates before her for no reason other than she tells him to. She gestures him to crawl until he’s at the proper distance, then carefully, with measured deliberation, brings her heels to rest on the small of his back. 

He shudders and glances at her. A wave of her perfect hands procures a nail file. 

Oh. _Oh. _“Stay there,” she instructs, settling in and examining her nails. “Don’t move.” 

And she begins. 

Being that Aziraphale is an angel, something without much need for physical restraints, he doesn’t so much feel a burn in his arms as he feels an itching deep within himself. Something aching to move, to twitch, to be free. Something telling him that he has to shift his weight on his hands by the time she moves onto the second hand. 

As the seconds tick by—infernal, horrible seconds that he can’t seem to understand how slow they suddenly are—the all-consuming, all suffocating desire to simply _move _and move and move reaches the point where he feels, genuinely, if he doesn’t twitch his wrist he is _going _to collapse.

Land face-first on the floor and embarrass himself in front of her. 

Disappoint her.

Good Lord, he would disappoint her. 

A noise escapes him before he can register, something half a sob, half keen at the idea that he could cause those perfectly painted lips to turn downwards, that he could make her bare her teeth and snarl how terrible he was. Yank his hair and toss him to the ground and tell him he’s worthless, he’s horrid, he’s a _bad angel. _

Aziraphale’s cock throbs and he’s barely even registered that this whole business has gotten him hard. His arms shake as she lifts her feet off him. “Come ‘round the side,” she tells him. “Hold my cup.”

He moves to get up but she clicks her tongue. “Ah-ah, angel.” She snaps, not a powerful snap that sends ricochets of unholy power cascading through the house. Just a snap. 

But a snap strong enough to pull him forward, back down to his hands and knees. He crawls and settles in alongside her chair, letting her set the cup between his shoulder blades. 

The itch returns full force. He breathes despite the fact he knows he doesn’t need to, eyes squeezing shut as he forces himself to stay still.

He’s a good soldier. A good angel. He’ll be still for her, he’ll be still. His arms tremble under the weight of the promise, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t move because he’s good.

He’s good. 

He’ll be so good. His breathing comes harder, harder as he flexes his hands to stay upright. He won’t let her down, won’t lose even a drop of the tea. 

It isn’t until he hears it that he feels his resolve start to crumble. The shift of fabric that makes his ears strain for more, strain to hear the scrape of fingers over fabric, over flesh—over _flesh. _He can hear her shift, hear the soft sounds of her breathing catch as her hands do—do something. He tries not to hear, tries not to listen.

It’s impossible. It’s impossible as the little breathy exhales turn to sweet-soft moans and Aziraphale knows, he knows what he’s doing because he’s wrenched those noises from her before. He doesn’t move, he _can’t _move. He has to be good—be Good. 

There’s more shifting fabric, a bitten-off whimper of pleasure, an interested creak in the chair. The next sound almost makes Aziraphale collapse, curl in on the burst of heat in his stomach as he hears the all-too familiar sound of fingers sliding over wet flesh. 

He whimpers, tensing every muscle in his body to avoid shivering at the knowledge that she’s there, she’s there with her fingers sliding inside herself. Aziraphale can taste the memory of her on the back of his tongue, he can hear it, he can smell her, every sense he has is overwhelmed with the thought of her. 

Beside him, she whines, chair protesting as she arches just enough off it—just enough for Aziraphale to know that’s what’s happened, just enough for him to know she’s curled two of those smart fingers against that spot inside her cunt, that she’s working her thumb over her clit to make herself _sing _with pleasure.

He can’t _see _what she’s doing, he tries not to even think about her up there, about how she might look at him—if he moves, if he twitches, if he breathes wrong her eyes will fill with nothing but distaste, distaste and hatred and scorn and Aziraphale gasps, the action enough to topple the tea right onto the rug. 

“Fuck,” he whimpers, before he can stop himself. 

Above him, Crowley pauses, the sounds all stopping before she sighs. Tears prick in his eye. 

“Angel,” she says, and Aziraphale winces as he hears her stand. “Angel, angel, angel.” 

Fingers, dainty and sweet, run through his hair for a moment before gripping, wrenching his head back with enough force to cause the misting in his eyes to overflow. “What are we going to do with you?”

“I’m so sorry—”

“Ah—” She holds out her spare finger. “No speaking unless given permission, Aziraphale.”

His mouth snaps shut with an audible click. 

“Good.” She lets go, circling around him vultures and half-dead things. Aziraphale tries not to shiver as she gets behind him. “Turn around and look at this mess.”

He does as he’s told, tentative and slowly. He doesn’t want to see it, doesn’t want to see the look on her face. So instead he focuses on the mess, on the splashed and spilled tea. He whimpers despite himself. 

“Look at it,” she says, even though he already is. “Look what you’ve done, Aziraphale.” 

His teeth catch his lip, stifling a second sob. The tea had spread, a good portion of it splashing onto the floor as opposed to being sopped up by the rug—he’d really ruined it. The mug had rolled under a shelf, leaving just the two of them alone with his misery. 

Aziraphale sniffs, trying to reign in the tremble that races up and down his spine as Crowley shifts, raising her foot up and letting it sit, the pointed toe between his shoulder blades, right on his back. She pushes down, and Aziraphale bends—willing and desperate to comply. 

“Clean,” she says, voice sharp and pointed, “it,” another push of her shoe, until Aziraphale’s elbows bend, lowering his face to the ground. “Up.” 

He licks at the tepid, ruined, tea, his face flush with a biting mortification that refuses to relinquish him. All he can feel is her, nothing but electricity bursting out from the insistant pressure point of her shoe on his back as she steps on him. There’s no floor beneath him, no chill of the air around him—there’s only her.

All he can hear is her breathing, all he can taste is the promise of her skin beneath his tongue. He laps up the tea he’s spilled, desperate, desperate to make amends. To be good. 

Good for her, good for his wife.

All he has is her. 

He has to be good for her, he has to be because what else would he be? When it’s gone, when he’s panting, his cheek to the cool floor and his chest and cock aching for something, anything, she slides her shoe down over his back, giving his ribs a little nudge with the toe. 

“Over,” she says, moving another chair out of the way so Aziraphale has plenty of room to roll onto his back. “Good little angel.” 

Good.

He’s a good angel. 

His eyes squeezing shut again, Aziraphale waits for her next move, her next punishment. Her shoe runs up his sternum, a little pressure here and there until she drags the toe up the line of his throat. 

Oh.

Well. 

He opens his eyes, just enough to see her, to see the cool ring of gold from her prey-sharpened eyes. Her dress is pulled down, exposing her perfect, pert breasts. She looks a touch more flushed, more bothered and out of sorts. 

Aziraphale’s stomach drops to the bowels of Hell with the force of his guilt. She sounded so close to her edge, so close to oblivion and he ruined it. 

Like he ruins everything. He’s not even allowed to scrub the tears from his eyes. He tries to swallow them down, but even that would jostle the boot positioned perfectly over his throat. 

Added pressure cuts off his airway just enough. Then it stops. Luckily, he doesn’t need to breathe. 

She repeats the gesture a few times, a small step, a release. A small step, a release. “What,” she asks, doing it once more, this time for just a touch longer. His hands flex at his sides to avoid going right to his cock to stroke himself off. “What are we going to do with you?”

Aziraphale knows she doesn’t want an answer, so he doesn’t give it. Just wets his lips and waits. 

A bolt of heat runs through him as he sees the moment the idea strikes her. Plum-painted lips curve into a wicked grin, one that climbs like ivy up a tower across her features as she stalks forward, hitching up the skirt of her dress. 

“You’ve been vocal tonight,” she says, settling in to straddle his chest. His heart hammers away, knowing very well where this is going. “Whimpering away like a puppy,” her nails are in his hair, scratching gently down the length of his cheek. Anticipation coils in his gut, primed and ready. His fingers twitch towards her thighs.

He won’t touch, he’s not allowed to touch. 

He needs her, he needs her now.

“Let’s see what we can do about that.” 

She moves up and Aziraphale feels very, very lucky that he doesn’t need to breathe as she presses her cunt down over his mouth and yes—yes this is what he’s been waiting for. 

He dives in immediately—no teasing, no savoring—tasting every inch of her slick, searing, cunt. He drags his tongue through her folds, pushes into her for just a moment, just to feel the flex of her body against him before pulling back and placing a sucking kiss right over her. 

Again and again, he eats her like a starving man, he drinks from her like he hasn’t a drop of water in years. She tastes like wine made from water, like a body from bread—she’s divine and infernal in the same moment. Burning hot and tinged with the wildfire taste of Hell that refuses to leave her skin. Impressed upon her from the moment she fell from such heights. 

Aziraphale takes what she offers him carefully, with all the reverence he’d afford to the mother of Christ. She deserves no less. He eats her like he loves her, with the entirely of his being pushed into this one moment, pushed into having her and taking her and pleasing her. 

He eats her like he loves her, with everything he has. 

Slowly, she loses her resolve—hips working and grinding against him. He moves with her, pushes his tongue as deep inside her as he can, curls and works it to taste her, to feel the way she spasms when he reaches where she wants him to.

When she comes, it’s grinding down against his face. She gasps his name, nails digging into his chest to stabilize herself as he tastes wave after wave of her orgasm washing over him. He feels her reaching out, beyond the corporeal form she wears and sling-shotting part of herself up into the night. 

Every inch of her raw and exposed. Aziraphale can feel the cold breeze of her Essence raging around them, capturing up every spare inch of air and consuming it in the frozen fires of herself as she reaches that final peak. 

She comes down slowly, panting and climbing down from Aziraphale’s body. “Good,” she breathes, knowing it sends a pleased trill right through Aziraphale’s body. She pets over his chest, down his stomach. “Good little angel.”

Good. 

He licks his lips, chasing the taste of her. 

Good angel. 

He can still feel the ghost of her clenching and unclenching, the squeeze of her thighs around his head. Her hand—three nails dulled down by willpower—scratches down his chest. 

“Do you think you deserve a reward?” She asks.

_Yes. _He wants to reply. _Yes, yes, my love, my darling. Reward me, have me, turning me over and _take _me. _

He shakes his head carefully. His eyes still burn. “No.” It’s a croak, barely above a whisper. 

She rubs low on his stomach, spreading her bony fingers down the side of his hip. A hair's breadth from his cock. He needs—he wants. 

“So remember,” she says, as she nudges his thighs apart (he parts them willingly for her, he always will.) “You don’t deserve this.” 

Two fingers circle his hole, one stroking over it with a deceptive tenderness. One dry touch, then another, then she’s perfectly slick—as if by miracle. Every touch sets his nerves alight, burning him up in waves outward from her. 

She’s electricity and water and fire and a dry forest. His toes curl with just a featherlight touch over his flesh, he cries out sharp and needy with a faint press of her finger against him. 

“Do you want it?” She asks, pressing just the tip of a single finger into him. “Go on, angel.”

His chest seizes at the promise of more instructions, of orders, of _anything _that tells him what to do. 

He needs this, he needs her to tell him—if just one last time. Tell him what to do, tell him who to be. 

“Beg.”

And beg he does. “_Please._” It’s wrecked and desperate and Aziraphale hasn’t needed anything in his life as much as he needs this. “Please, Crowley—I need—just a touch, a little bit—I will do anything you ask, I will be whatever you want me to be, whatever you need me to be.” 

He blinks back the tears, but all they do is overflow. “Crowley, please—my love, my dear, my _wife, _I need you. Touch me, I can’t—I can’t go another moment without it. I need it, my dear, I _need_ it.” The gasping breaths turn to hiccups. 

She hushes him with a single finger pushed inside him, wrenching a desperate, fulfilled, sob from his throat. Crowley works him open with just the one at a slow, torturous pace as he whimpers begs and pleads between desperate breaths. 

“Please,” he whimpers and she adds another, sending incomprehensible sparks of pleasure shooting down every nerve in his body, tracing out the system that was carved for him at the very moment of his existence. Nerves which were never meant to feel this sort of pleasure, skin which was never meant to ache for this sort of touch.

Incredible, the things that bodies never meant to do are capable of. She turns him inside out, exposing every urge he’s ever had and plays his body like the harps he knows she used to strum in the places they never speak of. 

By the third finger, Aziraphale only knows her again. The insistent points of contact are the only things he knows, the feeling of her touching him, of one hand stroking his cock and the other curving inside him to make him see the stars she’d hung in the skies. She renders him incapable of thought, of speech beyond just the whispered plea of her name. _Crowley, _is all he can think; _Crowley, _is all he can say. 

Crowley, Crowley, _Crowley. _She twists her fingers and he sees all the constellations and nebulae she wrapped her hands around. She spreads them and squeezes the base of his cock and all he can breathe is the explosive aftermath of the stardust that made a galaxy. 

He comes with her name on his lips but he can’t summon the air from his lungs to make a single sound. 

Admittedly, he has no idea what happens next. One moment he’s nothing but starlight and pleasure, wrung from every inch of his Essence feeling compressed and explosive at once. In the next, he’s empty, blinking as sharp-nailed fingers comb through his hair and Crowley looks down at him.

“Hush,” she says, and he doesn’t even realize he’s been babbling until her fingers touch his lips. 

The next moment, he’s cleaned with the tender lovingness that doesn’t come from a quick snap. There’s a rag and a bowl of water in sight. Crowley’s in her dressing down and Aziraphale’s in his pajamas—she still pets him, but now she’s hunched over, kissing down his brow and over his lips. 

“Wha—”

“You couldn’t keep corporeal for a bit there,” she says, thumbing under his eyes. Her thumbs slide, like they’re slick—but surely he isn’t crying. He feels so alight, he feels—he feels like everything and nothing at once. 

He feels whole. Complete. Utterly and completely exhausted. 

Crowley kisses the side of his nose again, smoothing her hands down his pajama top. “I didn’t want to risk taking you to bed when you kept, well, I wouldn’t say discorperating but we are going to need a new lamp. And you did blow out the bulbs when you came, angel.”

Bleary eyes turn up to where darkness seeps out from the corners. He frowns. He liked that lamp.

Crowley guides him up, her hands gentle but firm until he’s on his two feet. The mug is gone, he finds, with a certain sort of disappointment—he isn’t sure why, isn’t sure what it means as Crowley guides them back to the bedroom, as he sets Aziraphale down. 

They talk, for a short while, with Aziraphale’s cheek pillowed on her chest. About nothing, mostly, about her manicure, about her garden, about how she found a loose white feather in the Bentley which means tomorrow whether Aziraphale likes it or not he’s getting groomed. 

He won’t sleep—he doesn’t need to sleep and unlike Crowley he’s not the biggest fan of the whole bother. But he will lie there, watching his wife slip the pins from her hair, watching her brush out the curls and stretch out over the pillows. 

Aziraphale won’t sleep, but he’ll watch Crowley, one hand resting on her stomach to feel the effortless rise and fall as she keeps breathing just for him. 

**Author's Note:**

> I now know what God is going to show me in the moments before being sent directly to Hell. 
> 
> Anyway. I'm on [Tumblr](https://tooeasilyconsidered.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/hipsteroric)


End file.
